. . . He was my fighter, my magician,
my master of pretense, and the day
mother took too many aspirin,
he could do anything for me
but make me disappear.
–Excerpt from “What My Father Taught Me” in Edges by Donna Pucciani (Purple Flag, Chicago, 2016).
The photos emerge
from their hiding place in the cellar,
sepia fish, or paper ghosts
with white deckled borders.
Our fathers, long dead, boast
the cheerful sibilance of baldness,
a halo in the camera’s flash.
Our mothers, bedecked
in aprons and strange eyeglasses,
flap like crows’ wings.
–excerpt from “Recollected” in A Light Dusting of Breath by Donna Pucciani (Virtual Artists Collective/Purple Flag, 2015). First published in Journal of the American Medical Association.
Posted in Books, Journals, Poems
Tagged fathers, memories, mothers, nostalgia, old times, parents, past times, photographs, recollections